


Power to the Catbread People

by der_tanzer



Series: Catbread [1]
Category: Riptide (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-20
Updated: 2010-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murray learns why Quinlan has ceramic cats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power to the Catbread People

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Oddmonster, who started it all. Without you, Odd One, this would not exist.  
> 

Murray was walking out of the hospital, whistling softly and feeling pretty good, right up to the time he saw Lieutenant Quinlan sitting on the bench out front. The Jimmy was parked nearby and his eyes went automatically to the windshield as the whistle died on his lips. It was clear, but that didn't mean he wasn't in trouble. Quinlan might have just been waiting to grab him, or _one_ of them, in person. He might not know that Nick and Cody were out of town.

But when Quinlan saw him standing there, his eyes flicked over him without interest and returned to the ground. Murray's first reaction was relief, but then his conscience kicked in and he had to ask himself what had the Lieutenant looking so down. Just because he'd been there for a cheerful reason didn't mean everyone else was.

Quinlan didn't look up again until Murray's shadow fell over him.

"What do you want, geek-o?"

"Good morning to you, too, Lieutenant. I was just visiting my friend Stella. She had a baby yesterday. The most beautiful little girl you've ever—"

"Yeah, that's real interesting. What do you want?"

"Oh. Well, I was just wondering why you were sitting out here all alone. Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine. Don't I look fine?"

"Um—no. Not really. Are you waiting for somebody?"

"Yeah, a cab, so I can get out of here."

"Oh. But if—if everything's fine—where's your car?"

"For crying out loud, Bozinsky. Do you need to know everything? Fine. I was busting up that drug ring down at the docks last night and I stepped on a nail. Damn doctors gave me a tetanus shot, and I had a bad reaction and had to spend the night. Are you happy now?"

Murray took a moment to think that over, considering the almost unthinkable idea of Quinlan actually being _sick_, combined with the pathos of not having anyone to drive him home. Even if he didn't have a partner, the department could have sent someone to get him. What about that thin blue line stuff they kept printing in _Reader's Digest_? Murray decided they may have had their differences in the past, like two minutes ago, but Quinlan was still a human being. Probably.

"You don't have to wait," he said slowly, bracing himself for the insults that were sure to follow. "I could give you a ride home."

"Your friends actually let you drive?"

Murray had been steeled but it still surprised him a little. Before he could answer, Quinlan went on.

"Where_ is_ the volleyball team, anyway? State playoffs today or something?"

"No, they—they're on vacation. They flew down to Mexico for some surfing and snorkeling. That kind of thing."

"Oh, I see. Little lover's getaway, right? And you got to stay home and feed the cat."

"We don't have a cat," Murray said, mystified.

"Figure of speech. Funny, I always thought you were one of them. But I guess three's a crowd after all, huh?"

"I—that is to say, we—it didn't—I mean _wouldn't_…" He trailed off, blushing furiously, wishing he were Cody and could hit this short, smirking son of a bitch right in the mouth. Instead he turned around with a muttered goodbye and started to walk away.

"Hey, Bozinsky," came the gruff, taunting voice. "I thought you were going to give me a ride?"

Murray knew what Cody would say about that, and what Nick would _do_, but that was them, and this was him. He turned back and gave Quinlan a hand getting up.

The lieutenant was limping badly as they crossed the parking lot and Murray held onto his arm, in spite of the dirty looks. His right foot was injured, although it was hard to tell how seriously because he'd insisted on wearing his shoe, and Murray walked on that side because he said his left arm hurt more.

"What's a tetanus reaction like?" he asked curiously, opening the car door and receiving another dirty look for his politeness. "I've had three or four vaccines and don't remember any particular trouble."

"Lucky you," Quinlan said grimly, sinking into the seat and lifting his right leg in with his hand. "I was up half the night puking my guts with a temperature of a hundred and three, and my fucking arm's still useless."

He was wearing his usual loose beige jacket, but when Murray looked closer, he could see the fabric was stretched tight over his upper arm. Wincing a little in sympathy, he closed the door and went around to the other side.

"I just realized," Murray said, pulling into the street, "that I don't know where you live."

"That's not an accident. Go up to the next light and turn right."

"Gee, Lieutenant, maybe I should let you off at the corner or something. I wouldn't want you to have to move because your secret got out."

"Shut up and turn right," he sighed, closing his eyes. His arm was killing him and he felt wrung out and empty from the long night of near constant puking. Oh, they'd offered him drugs for that, but he'd had enough of their needles and their bright ideas. His body had always healed itself, and he was confident it would again, so long as Bozinsky's driving didn't get him killed. "Take the next left onto Oak and go two blocks to the Oakwood Apartments."

"What number?"

"Six twenty-four."

"No, the apartment. So I can park close to the door."

"Five," he sighed, not opening his eyes. He really was going to have to move now. Still, he let Murray walk him to the door, leaning more heavily on the skinny body than he'd thought it could take. But then, if the geek wasn't stronger than he looked, he probably wouldn't be able to stand upright.

Quinlan fumbled his keys and Murray took them, unlocking the door with a vague curiosity as to what he'd see inside. He figured it would be either something like a military barrack with Spartan neatness, or a college dorm with pizza boxes and beer cans all over the floor. Either would suit this Vietnam veteran who ate lunch at a strip joint. His curiosity was only further inflamed when Quinlan snatched the keys and tried to slip in without opening the door more than a crack. But he caught his sore foot on the threshold, stumbled and would have fallen if Murray hadn't grabbed him around the waist. The door flew open and Murray dragged him inside before he could protest.

"You've done your good deed for the day," Quinlan snarled. "You can get out now."

But Murray was frozen in shock. This was no barracks, and it was sure-god no college boy's dorm. The apartment was small, one bedroom and a kitchenette that probably couldn't handle making two Eggos at the same time, and it was full of cats. Not real cats, although he couldn't have been more surprised if they were, but ceramic cats. Shelves of them, everywhere. Big and small, realistic and cartoonish, cats in overalls pushing wheelbarrows, cats with fishing poles dangling off the shelves, paisley and checked and striped cats, as far as the eye could see. In one corner was a scientist cat in lab coat and glasses, looking through a microscope, a large tortoiseshell with a badge standing guard over it. The tortoiseshell had its teeth bared and was the only angry looking cat in the whole apartment, so far as he could see. The implications were staggering and Murray looked away.

"I said get out, Bozinsky." Quinlan jerked his arm free and nearly fell again.

"You can call me Murray, you know," he said vaguely. "I've heard you call Nick and Cody by their first names so I know it's not a principled stand."

"You're not Nick _or_ Cody," Quinlan snapped. He'd given up on forcing the skinny kid out and begun trying to get out of his jacket. It seemed like his arm had swelled even more since the two hostile nurses shoved him into the jacket an hour ago, and when he felt the gentle hands trying to help he didn't argue.

"No, I'm not," Murray said, the words almost a sigh. "You don't _like_ them, but you really _hate_ me, don't you?"

"I don't hate you, Bozinsky. I don't want you in my home, but I don't hate you."

"Then why—?"

Quinlan snatched his jacket and hung it up on a peg board made of black cat silhouettes. He didn't know what he was going to say when he opened his mouth, but it turned out not to matter. A wave of nausea overtook him and he spun away, limping frantically for the bathroom. Murray closed the front door and went to the kitchen, resigned to doing the right thing at all costs.

When he was sick, he liked tea and toast, so probably other people did, too. The tea was in the cabinet by the stove, which surprised him a little. He hadn't really expected to find any. What surprised him a _lot_ was the breadbox. It was humped and rounded, painted in such a way that he wasn't sure if it was a tiger striped tabby or a loaf of cinnamon bread. Maybe both. _Probably_ both. He rolled up the side of the orange—for want of a better word—catloaf, and took out a package of bread. While the water boiled on the stove, he toasted two slices of white bread and put them on a plate. By the time the tea was ready, Quinlan was in the bedroom and Murray took it to him.

"You're still here," Quinlan sighed. "What did I say about not wanting you in my home?"

"You said you didn't hate me. Here, try to eat this."

The lieutenant was in bed, the blankets pulled up to his waist, looking somehow smaller and less dangerous than Murray had ever seen him. Maybe it was the paleness of his skin or the almost hopeless look in his eyes. He took the plate, balanced it on his bare chest, and tore off a bit of toast. Murray set the mug of tea on the nightstand and then wasn't sure what to do next.

"Gonna stand there and watch me eat? Haven't you got anything better to do with your day, Bozinsky?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. But you're still a human being and I hate to go off and leave you sick and—" He bit back the word _alone_, but Quinlan heard it in his voice.

"I'm not sick," he said, and ate the toast to prove it. "Just need a decent night's sleep, that's all." He put the plate aside and tried the tea, expecting it to be bitter. People never put sugar in tea when they thought you were sick, and Bozinsky was a computer geek, a guy who probably thought Pepsi and M&amp;Ms were a meal.

But whatever crap he ate himself, he'd done the tea up right with just a touch of honey. Still…

"Trying to give me botulism now?" he grumbled, not putting down the cup.

"Only infants get botulism from honey," Murray said patiently. "Although the way you're acting right now—"

"Can it, Bozinsky."

"Murray."

"Fuck you."

He sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Why? I've had people call me doctor after I asked them not to, and colonel, but that's a misplaced sense of respect. Which is not a problem you have, at least not with me. And it's not like I'd try to reciprocate." The idea of saying _Ted_ in this man's presence actually made him shiver.

"You don't know diddly shit about my problems."

"Okay. But I know that respecting me isn't one of them. When you met my friend Angelo Guirilini, you went on and on about what a great scientist he is. Well, you know perfectly well that I'm as important in my field as he is in his, and all you do is call me names."

"If this is what you're like all the time, no wonder those bums left you at home."

Murray winced, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses, and he started to rise. But Quinlan couldn't let him go that way. Not after he'd been inside and seen what no man was ever supposed to. If he left hurt or angry, the whole town would be talking by nightfall, and Quinlan really would have to move.

"Wait," he said, his low voice thick with resignation. "I've never known how to talk to you, Bozinsky. You outrank me, but I'm damned if colonel is the word for you, or doctor, either. I never called anyone that outside a hospital."

"There are other kinds of doctors," Murray said, almost hopefully. "My Ph.D is in…"

"Don't patronize me," he interrupted and Murray shut up at once. "I know what kind of doctor you are, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna go around saying it all the time."

"So call me by my name."

"I can't," he said and suddenly all the gruffness was gone. He didn't sound at all like the Lieutenant Quinlan Murray had known since he came to King Harbor. This was a tired, defenseless man, naked in his own bed in a tiny apartment full of ceramic cats. Murray had never met this man before and was fascinated by what he might say next.

"Why not?"

"Because you're a doctor and you outrank me. And I never know what the blue fuck you're talking about, anyway."

"So, you talk," Murray shrugged, absolutely intrigued by this stranger with Quinlan's face. "What's up with all the cats?"

"My ex wife left them. Should have cleaned the damned things out years ago."

"Your—no way," he said, trying not to laugh. "Your wife didn't live here. No woman would live here. You moved in after you were divorced and the cats—?"

"Are none of your damn business. Bozinsky, I swear to god…"

"You really want me to leave?"

"I want more toast," he said, so unexpectedly that Murray thought he'd misheard.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Toast, genius. You know, hot bread? Sort of brown?"

"Oh. Yes, yes, of course. Can I top off your tea while I'm up?"

"You can go to hell," Quinlan muttered. "After you get my toast. And tea."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant. Right away, sir." But Quinlan was sure he heard the skinny geek laughing as he left the room.

Murray got the bread from the cat bread box, (catbread, he kept thinking, shaking his head at the absurdity of the whole thing), and dropped it in the toaster. The water was still warm and boiled up quickly. Being thoughtful at all times, at all costs, Murray got a fresh tea bag and added just a bit more honey. It had looked like Quinlan appreciated that.

"So why did your partners leave you behind?" he asked when Murray returned. Somewhat taken aback, although not sure whether it was because Quinlan was interested or because the question itself hurt, Murray hesitated to answer. He put the mug and plate on the nightstand and waited until the other man asked again.

"I told you, they had things they wanted to do that I don't—don't do so well. And I had work."

"In other words, those two are queer for each other and they cut you out."

"I don't think that our personal lives are any of your business," he said, rather stiffly.

"I'll take that as a yes. Did you even try, or did you just assume that a couple of pretty boys wouldn't be interested in a skinny little geek like you?"

"They love each other," he whispered. "They always have. And besides, I'm a doctor and I outrank them."

"You think they give a good goddamn about that?" Quinlan asked conversationally, sipping his tea. "You think rank and doctorates mean anything to those two? Shit. I respect you more than they do." He hadn't meant to say that part out loud and turned to the nightstand to hide his expression, putting his mug down carefully and tearing a slice of toast in half. Murray stood silently for a moment, not sure he wanted to know where that train of thought might ultimately stop, and hunting for a way to derail it.

"Your arm looks painful. Did they give you anything for it at the hospital?"

"Fucking killing me," Quinlan said, just as grateful for the change of subject. "There's a bottle of pills in my jacket."

"Oh, okay. I'll just go get them for you."

He was only gone for a minute, but that was long enough for Quinlan to finish the toast and start thinking about how to get the guy out of there before things got any worse. It should have been a good thing, getting him to admit that he was as queer as his friends, but knowing that he lusted after those kinds of men was of no comfort to Quinlan.

Murray put the bottle in his left hand and Quinlan promptly dropped it trying to transfer it to his right.

"I'm sorry, I forgot," Murray smiled. "See why my brains don't get me any respect?" He was laughing, sitting down again to pick up the bottle, and opening the childproof cap easily. Something about those nimble fingers made Quinlan's heart stutter in his chest and a faint heat rose up his neck. "How many?"

"Two," he said harshly. May as well go to sleep. Murray put the pills in his hand and felt him shiver as his fingertips brushed the callused palm.

"Are you cold? Do you want another blanket?"

"It's not cold in here," he said, still too harshly, and swallowed the pills with a gulp of tea. Then, his voice tinged with inexplicable regret, "You can go if you want."

Murray blinked at the change in tone, and blinked again when the words processed. Not an order or even a request. Just permission to leave if he wanted to. Which, conversely, implied that he was equally welcome to stay.

"I don't mind hanging around. You know, in case you need anything."

"What about your work?"

"Oh, that. Well, it's not really very important. I just didn't want…"

"Didn't want what? Come on, Bozinsky. As long as we're sharing secrets here, let's have it."

"I didn't want the guys to think I minded being left behind. I knew they wanted to be alone so I said I had things to do. I really don't."

There was a brief silence, broken when Quinlan suddenly said, "Take off your glasses."

"What? Why?"

"Because I never see you without them, unless you're getting knocked on your ass, or about to cry."

"Yeah? Which is this?"

"Just do it."

Murray hesitated another second and then did as he was told. The small room drifted out of focus and he rubbed his eyes as if that would help. He didn't see Quinlan start to move and didn't know he had until he felt the strong hand around his wrist. He flinched, having no good associations with that hand to reassure him, and the thick fingers tightened, pulling his own suddenly delicate-looking hand away from his face. Murray was frankly staring in shock, his vision too blurred to make out Quinlan's expression, and suddenly he felt moist, chapped lips under his fingertips. Kissing. Quinlan was kissing his fingers. Murray reached for his glasses and the other man said _no_, quietly, his breath tickling Murray's palm.

"I—I don't understand."

"I know you don't. And if you want to leave, go back to the boat and sit there by yourself, you're welcome to it. Or you can stay here and maybe learn something about what it means to be appreciated."

"A—appreciated? Is that anything like being respected?"

"In this case? Sure, why not." He laid Murray's hand against his cheek, letting him feel the deep scar that creased his face, studying the soft brown eyes for any sign of fear or disgust. But all he saw was simple wonder, and it made him angry all over again. Had no one ever wanted this sweet, gentle man? Was he so hard up for love that he would accept it from anyone?

"You don't hate me?"

"Murray," was all he said, sitting up and reaching with his good arm for the skinny man before him. Their lips met and Murray shivered, pressing closer for warmth. He braced his hands on the bed and encouraged the other man to lie back, covering the stocky body with his longer, leaner one as they devoured each other, tasting of tea and toast (catbread, Murray thought inanely; something just for them). When Quinlan began tearing at his shirt, he pulled away just enough to take it off, and was rewarded with the feel of that strong, rough hand on his bare back. Oh, but not so rough after all. There was gentleness there, the gentleness of a man who dusted two hundred ceramic cats every week, and probably had no one else to show it to.

When he pulled back the blankets, Murray stripped off the rest of his clothes and climbed onto the bed, straddling the thickly muscled thighs. Quinlan was already erect, his cock as thick and hard as one might expect, although not as short. Murray wrapped his hand around it loosely, letting the feel, the _scent_, of arousal work its magic on his own love-starved body. As he grew hard, he felt Quinlan's hand on him, cradling his shaft, pressing them together, and gasped in pleased surprise. The slim hips moved beneath him, bringing them into closer contact, and Murray's hand clenched reflexively. That time he heard Quinlan gasp and bit his lower lip to hold back a smile.

It was easy after that to find their rhythm, hips and hands moving together, drawing sighs and moans from both of them, Murray blind and hanging his head in submission, Quinlan straining up toward him, back arched almost painfully. The soft, pleading groans, calloused fingers and hard barrel ribs under his left hand tore Murray's heart and made him desperate for more.

"Fuck," Quinlan muttered. "Ah, fuck, that's good. Look at me, kiddo. Open your eyes." He squeezed just a little harder, and that was all it took. Murray's world dissolved in flashes of light as he came on Quinlan's belly, the strong hand milking him through it, then going still as his own orgasm overtook him.

For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Then, as if it had been agreed upon, their hands came together, sticky and slick, and held on as Murray slid off him and collapsed on the bed. They lay panting in the silence, side by side, each man's thoughts unknown to the other for long minutes. Then, very softly, one of them spoke.

"Ted?"

"Yeah, Murray?"

"Power to the catbread people," he whispered.

"Shut up, geek-o."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant. Whatever you say."


End file.
